I hope you make time to read and more time to revel in the magic of the experience.

I hope you can get away for a day or two to a place far away in the rains. 

I hope your life is more than train rides and work stress and weight worries. I hope it is larger than all that and full of things that make memories.

I hope you get more than you deserve but less than what might make you complacent. 

I hope you write, because to create something by yourself is the best kind of satisfaction.

I hope you spend time with someone who wants to spend time with you. 

I hope you eat food that makes you grateful about being alive.

I hope your socks remain colourful.

I hope 2013 surprises you. But only in the best possible way.

Bye.

The train crawled out of the station leaving behind a sea of people, waving furiously at their parting family and friends. Children, sitting on the shoulders of their parents, called out their goodbyes in strangely cheerful tones, not quite reflecting the unhappiness that their adult counterparts seemed to feel. I watched from under a huge railway clock, knowing full well that this was perhaps the last time I’d see Arka.

A couple of hours earlier, we had made our way into the crowded train station, pulling suitcases full with clothes that Arka had long outgrown, sweatshirts that had never been worn in the sorry excuse of a winter in Bombay and books that had been collected from several places –the enthusiastic booksellers at Fountain and the air-conditioned book stores in malls which didn’t quite have the same charm.

I was carrying Arka’s backpack and since I have the emotional resilience of a child, I could feel the tears welling up simply because I knew this was the last time. I wore the backpack close to my chest, like Bombay trains teach you to. I hugged it really tight, when Arka wasn’t looking.
I pronounced it as Arka when I first met him. “Or-koh” he had corrected me and clearly I wasn’t the first person to say it wrong. After that, there was no looking back. I said his name in my head multiple times in the years that followed, every time he crossed the street to where I was waiting or every time his number flashed on my phone. Or koh. Or koh.

The station was too crowded to find a place to sit. I put his backpack next to his suitcases and stood there, my arms on my hips. “Do you have everything? Tickets? Water? Do you want some food? I could run across and get a sandwich or something.” I said, my words tumbling out, like tears that had been held back too long. He looked at me with a look of exasperation and mild affection. “I’ll be fine; I have travelled alone before you know.” I nodded.
We had something that I can’t quite define and we were stuck in a confusing little place between being best friends and more. I never admitted it to him or to myself even but I knew that his going away would give me some perspective. I’d know for sure whether I wanted to follow him, to pursue him, to demand that he be more than just my best friend. A big part of me also knew that once he sat on the train, I’d mentally give up. It takes too much out of a person to place your feelings in front of someone, knowing that there is a good possibility that they will take one look and shake their head. No.No.No.

My feelings had colourful clashes inside my head more often than what is healthy.

The train came into the station and people began to jump in, to arrange luggage and keep their things, so that they could hug and kiss their teary eyed relatives in peace. Arka and me stood still.
“I’ll go, I think.” I said and didn’t give a reason because I couldn’t come up with one. I didn’t want to stay because I know I’d cry. Arka nodded. “Yeah, it’s too damn crowded anyway.” “Will you be able to manage the luggage?” He nodded again. I hid in his hug, working my best to not tear up, something that would both annoy him and make him uncomfortable. He patted my back. “I’ll call you. This isn’t a big deal.”

I walked away but didn’t have the heart to leave the station until the train left. I stood far away, waiting, watching, and wondering. Wondering if, somewhere behind tinted train windows, Arka was looking for me among all those faces.

Little toy soldier on the window pane. He watches the cars go by. In the mornings, he watches the men buy milk in their night clothes and skim through newspapers through their gummy eyes. His room is quiet. The bed is made with pale blue sheets. The pillows are new.
The couple in the house poke their heads through the door and look around. They don’t necessarily notice him. Sometimes, the woman comes in and looks through the window. She picks him up and looks him in the eye but she says nothing. She leaves him there again by the window.
There is a basket right under where he sits. Basket full of toys; dolls with woollen hair and big bright cars that make sounds. Boxes and boxes of board games; Scrabble in a hope that the kid will be fascinated by words and Monopoly in case he is all about the money. Paint boxes and colouring books. Playing cards with pictures of fruits on the back.
An invisible child plays with cards on the marble floor, painting some invisible pictures by the side.
The height chart on the wall has pictures of animals on it. Giraffes and rabbits, a strange way to assure both short and tall kids. It remains unmarked.
The man of the house comes in once in a while and sits on the freshly made bed. Sometimes, he smokes a cigarette but almost always puts it out midway. Then he sighs and leaves, the smoke and the fizzling guilt settle in the corner of the room.
The tin soldier observes all this in silence. The little gun on his back doesn’t work and perhaps never did. Then again, nobody ever tried.
In the room next to this one, the man and the woman fall asleep every night at around the same time. The child they never could have curls and sleeps between them.

Garbled.

You have to be very careful what you hope for. 

You have to be even more careful to not hope for certain things. 

You sit down, and make a list of all the things that you have been secretly hoping for and haven't been admitting to yourself. Then you take that list and burn it. 

If something sounds too good to be true, it probably is. If something sounds like it's absolutely horrible and you laugh it off because it's never going to happen to you, don't. The strange turns that your life can take have more potential than you give them credit for.

Realism leans towards pessimism because no one likes being caught off guard. It's easier to pretend that you are going to fail miserably and then you can rejoice silently when you scrape through.

Realism is when you use a lot of maybes, because come on now, in reality none of us have a clue.

And those of us who have a clue, run with the clues and then sulk in our soups because we feel short-changed.